


Proof

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Shameless Season 2, both of em, defensiveness and longing both at once, sex and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey are reunited in Season Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof

He smells the same. Of course he would. Ian knew he would, but as they walk down the street, there it is, rising from Mickey so fast and thick it makes him dizzy. It feels like smelling him for the first time. 

The heat is stifling, the air is still. It doesn’t matter. Mickey is beside him, skin damp and flushed under the streetlights. It’s not enough that he will smell Mickey up close, minutes from now, smell him heavy and pure and deep. It’s not enough. It’s too far away. His fingers clench open and shut, trying hard not to grab, pull, guide him into any dark place they pass. It’s not enough. It’s been a few months. It feels like years.

“What,” Mickey says. 

Ian laughs lightly, shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. He licks his lips, drops his eyes. He tastes salt. He inches closer to Mickey as they walk. 

He inches closer to him, but every time he does, Mickey steps forward slightly, keeping the space between them. Ian starts talking, saying things, things to fill the silence, things to distract himself, cover up what he really wants to say. Mickey lights a cigarette, gives a little “huh” in response.

Ian lets his mouth close quietly as the baseball field comes into view. He breathes just a little harder. He takes that extra half step forward to meet Mickey’s stride. Their damp forearms tap together, hold there. Mickey tosses his cigarette into the street. Ian keeps his eyes straight ahead, but he feels Mickey look down to where their arms meet, can almost feel his breath brush against him. Mickey steps away again. Spits into the street. 

*  


He smells the same, better even, like this. Mickey leaning against the fence, Ian's mouth stretched around him, sliding deep as Mickey's hand cradles the back of his neck. "Hot," Mickey whispers into the air. "S'fuckin hot."

Ian moans at the words, even though he knows Mickey would deny their meaning if asked. The weather. Complaining. Summer. That’s all. But it wouldn’t be true. 

Ian reaches back and yanks Mickey’s ass forward, knocking him deeper into his throat. Mickey is leaking, his taste strong and heady as Ian pulls him closer. He swallows and Mickey cries out, but when he looks up Mickey darts his eyes away. 

Mickey's hips stutter, and Ian hums encouragement, but Mickey pulls back. 

"C'mon, let’s fuckin–" Mickey says. His voice unsteady, shaking. 

"After," Ian breathes. He pulls him back in hard. He can feel Mickey about to pull away, so he sinks all the way to the base, eyes closed, relaxed, relieved. 

They move together, and when they catch the rhythm, it doesn't take long. Ian can feel Mickey's leg shake against his shoulder, and a ragged "holy shit," and then another, and when he feels Mickey begin to pulse, he sucks harder. 

Ian has barely finished swallowing before he's on his feet, spinning Mickey around and bending him over against the fence. 

A hand on his hip, a hand sliding down his back to meet his neck. Mickey’s breath heaving beneath Ian’s arm, neck dropping. Ian’s hand slides off, finds his other hip, grips him hard. Mickey's legs are nudged open wider as Ian's long hands slide down to meet his thighs. A scratch to the skin, a slide over his ass. Mickey stifles a groan. Ian's jaw drops, then closes, his tongue's muscle memory still chasing the salty taste of Mickey in his mouth. 

But this is this, and he's ready, and Mickey's ready. Mickey's breath is hard, he nudges his feet back so he can bend better. Ian lets out a slow breath, nervous as he begins. He's thought about this for months. Thought about in the shower, in his dark room, late enough he hopes he won't be heard. 

It feels like about of body experience. He watches himself slick up his fingers. He watches his hand slide between Mickey's legs, gripping his rapidly hardening cock, fingers grazing his balls as he pulls his hand away. His hand returns, fingers still slick, circling, sinking in. 

Ian hopes he's gotten better at this. Better than Mickey remembers, anyway. It's not enough to be sort-of-good at this. Ian wants to be great at this, someday. He hopes he can be. Will be. He's been learning things, watching things, wanting things. He wants to show Mickey those things, the little deck of cards he's made with Mickey's name on them. 

There is a strange noise coming from somewhere in Mickey’s throat as he pushes back on Ian’s fingers. When Ian withdraws them, his hands shake. He wipes his hand on his pants. He hears Mickey’s breath hitch at the rattle of Ian’s belt buckle opening and dropping. He finds Mickey's hip again. Slowly but firmly presses in. 

There is a groan. Groans. Stay still. Stay still. Ian’s breath chokes heavy in his throat, a little weight to hold his sounds back. His forehead drops between Mickey’s shoulder blades with a sigh. Mickey does not tell Ian to get off him. He does not tell Ian to stop breathing against the space there, stop holding his lips against his shirt. Mickey is sighing, only sighing, only shaky breath as Ian’s mouth slides against his shirt, lips softly grazing the spot where Mickey’s shirt ends and his shoulder begins. 

He doesn’t mean to. He really doesn’t. He doesn’t. But Mickey does not tell him to move, _just move, just fucking move already._ Instead, Mickey breathes there, breathes fast, a tiny sound leaving his mouth, neck falling the smallest bit back. “Fuck,” Mickey breathes. Ian’s hand smoothes firm and steady down Mickey’s arm, slowly raising Mickey’s hand to the fence. 

Mickey gives a soft groan, a little whispered word that Ian can’t hear. He watches Mickey’s hand, fingers quickly finding grooves in the metal as he gives a little nod. 

Ian slides back, presses deeper as his hips meet Mickey again. Again. Again. 

Did it always feel like this? It feels different. Is he getting better at this? Does Mickey like this? Like it more than before? It feels different to hear Mickey’s low voice rising up in the air. Did he always do that? His voice sounds new like this, and Ian wants to hear more, and more, and more. It feels different as Ian’s hands pull Mickey’s hips back harder and harder, his fingers pressing low. 

He imagines the lines and swirls of his fingerprints leaving evidence. Not heavy, not bruised. Just leaving traces, just enough to be seen under a light, revealed with powder and dust. Proof he was there, that he’s been here. Over and over, he’s been here. On Mickey. Like this. He presses into him harder, a snap of his hips, a groan. 

Before long, Mickey’s hand is gripping the fence hard, knuckles white, punching out _Yeah. Like that. ‘S there. Fuck._

That’s where he is, where he’s been. Now back here again, thank God. “Fuck, Mick,” Ian says, dropping his head again. 

Mickey starts to cry out, bites it back. Ian wants to see his face so bad he’d flip him around if Mickey'd ever let him. But Mickey doesn’t. Not ever. 

Still, there is this. Mickey, pushing back harder. Close. So fucking close. 

Ian isn’t sure who is ready first. He only knows that when Mickey opens his mouth, a sound races out. Then another one, louder this time. Then Ian is letting go, the word _fuck_ quietly leaving his mouth. 

Ian smiles as he hears Mickey’s voice drop with a sigh as he pulls away. Hears the rough, satisfied sound Mickey pushes out before he lets go of the fence, before he straightens his body, before he yells “I’ve always wanted to do that here!” The night is sticky and still, and the smell of Mickey is everywhere. 

* 

It was easier to convince Linda than he thought, and three days later, Mickey’s standing in front of him, casually flipping through a magazine. 

Three days ago, in the dugout, when Ian suggested the store, he didn’t think Mickey would actually do it, much less think of his own job. _Mickey_ was the one who said “How ‘bout security?” _He_ was the one, the one to find a job for himself. Decided to be somewhere Ian would be. That had to mean something, right? Had to mean he wanted to be close to him? Closer than before? Time to talk, time to watch each other breathe, time to check each other out over and over as they moved around the store?

Ian tries not to read too much into it, get his hopes up. Get his hopes up that every day he could actually be that close to Mickey, get closer, be that close to the walk-in cooler, to sex. Get his hopes up it will last. But here Mickey is. Like he would be all the time, now. For now. Ian is glad there is a counter between them, glad he can sit down, try and pull himself together. He'll have to train his body not to respond like this. At least not all the time. 

The ice cream truck is up and running again. It's the perfect sign of summer, stuffed to the gills with Popsicles, loosey cigarettes, candy. The smell of exhaust mixed with pot and the taste of imitation cherry in your mouth. 

"Alright, we're taking six cases of beer, Linda." Lip makes sure Linda can see him on the camera. 

Ian and Mickey help load up. Ian is so aware of him, lifting things, talking to Lip. It’s a little parcel in his hands - his life in summer, this summer, the things he wants, already. Mickey’s body. The sweat on his neck. 

They drag the back door shut. Frank comes and goes, just like any other thing he does. Mickey cracks a joke, Ian cracks a joke, and then it’s not really joking, not exactly. Mickey is smirking, and Ian is shaking his head, but when it’s quiet again, the truth is there. It’s a slippery, nervous fact Mickey holds out in his palm for Ian to catch, pick up, keep safe.

Mickey clears his throat. He walks over to the tomatoes. He picks them up carefully, one by one, moves them around. His fingers are slow, turning them softly. “Here’s a busted one,” he says. He pulls one out, tosses it for Ian to catch. It spits juice and seeds into Ian’s hands as soon as his fingers touch it. 

*

Mandy pulls her hair off her neck, holds it in one sheet at the top of her head. Her hair is damp on the underside, right against the neck. Ian sees the way it curls, just the tiniest bit, just the teeniest tiniest bit, when she sweats. Milkovich. Mickey. She winds her hair around her head. Not a ponytail, not down on her shoulders, just a fumble here and there to get it off her neck. She gives up, lets it drop.

“My asshole brother making you crazy?” 

Ian shrugs. “No, it’s–” he begins. “It’s fine. He’s funny.” 

“Right,” Mandy snorts. Tries to kick Ian in the shin as they walk. 

“Where are we going?” 

Mandy shrugs her shoulders. “Air conditioning.” 

Ian nods, lets her link her arm in his. “Definately. Movie?” 

“Got caught last time. That skank with the braces. On her shitlist.” 

Ian nods. “Wanna go north?” 

Mandy shrugs “How much money do you have?” 

Ian opens his wallet, pokes around. Mandy pulls on his arm to peek. “Jesus, how many fucking condoms do you need?” Ian huffs out a laugh, then tries to regain composure when Mandy glares at him. 

“Guess we’re just walking,” Mandy says. “Wanna go smoke in the park? We can laugh at all the Northside guys trying to score.” 

Ian laughs. “Definately.” 

They cut across the street. “So,” Mandy says, walking closer, about to shove him. “Who is he?” 

Ian jumps away from her hands, smiling. “C’mon.” 

Mandy really shoves him this time. “C’mon what? You’re acting different. Obviously getting laid because you have that dopey proud look on your face all the time.” 

It’s Ian’s turn to shove. “Fuck you,” he laughs. He dodges Mandy’s shin-kick. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I can’t tell you his name. But yeah.” 

Mandy’s jaw drops. “Really?” 

Ian nods. 

“You’re blushing!” Mandy smiles so sweetly, slow and open. Sometimes Ian feels like he can see it in Mickey. Almost. “Why is this a secret?” She keeps shoving into him. “When are you going to tell me this stuff? Nothing other than Roger and Kash? I need more than that.” 

They pass a sour smelling dumpster, an empty storefront with bars on the windows, a Wendy’s. “I have enough to buy fries and frostys,” Ian says. “Take it or leave it.” 

“Take it, obviously.” Mandy opens the door. 

“Okay,” he says. Mandy’s eyes are wide and disbelieving. Now, that. That, Ian sees plenty of. A stunned mixture of interest and disapproval. “Okay,” he says again. “I can’t tell you his name.” She groans, but he reels her back in. “But he’s the same guy. The same guy from before.” 

“Him? The guy that pulled you outta Kash?” The corner of her mouth curls up, and there he is again. 

Ian laughs. “Yep. Him. Took a break, but now we’re back.” 

Mandy grins. “You little shit.” 

Ian orders the stuff, and out they go. “It’s good,” he says against the straw. He means everything. Everything good. The dark swallows them up, bit by bit, as they walk. The air is thick around them, shadows in the trees, Ian’s mouth cold and sweet. 

* 

It’s a slow morning. A few lotto tickets, two cartons of Marlboros, one pack of Old Golds. A watermelon. Ian is glad he brought his math book. Not like he understands it, really. Worth a shot. 

Mickey grabs a donut. He squirms against his jacket, pulls at the front. “Feels weird.” 

“Yeah? Looks good, though.” Ian smirks, tips his head. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.” He squirms again. “Not that,” he says. He pulls the jacket away from himself again. His eyes find the curved security mirror in the corner of the store, jaw shifting. “The,” he says, “The other thing.” Mickey shrugs a shoulder, eyes flit to the door. 

Ian rakes his eyes over Mickey’s body. He can’t help the smile rising on his lips. He knows what he means. The small cluster on his chest, just above his right nipple. Ian knows they will last a while. He made sure they would. “Weird like bad?"

“Didn’t say that,” Mickey says evenly.

Ian nods when Mickey’s eyes come back to him. He fights to hold his face still. “Okay.” 

Mickey raps quietly on the counter twice. “Gonna smoke.” 

The door closes and Ian can let his grin out. He wipes his fingers over his face, sighing. Smiling.

Last night in the old busted building. He still doesn’t know how it even happened. His mind still swims to think of it, to think of Mickey’s gruff, weak protest as Ian first moved his mouth against his chest. Mickey’s shaky hand on his shoulder. “Eh,” he breathed. “I can’t–" but he was breathing so hard, eyes firm against Ian's lips.

Ian nodded and sat back, stupid and shy. "Sorry. Seemed like you were-"

Mickey coughed, looked away, looked back. “Just,” he said, softly. “I don’t know. Just...slower, maybe."

Fuck. He could do slow. Fuck. He could definitely do slow. With Mickey, he never got to go slow, take his time. The words made him woozy. Fuck. Ian wanted to pull Mickey in deep. Take him deep, deeper than he ever had, unravel him completely, his mouth all over him.

But it was this, instead. But this made his head spin just as much. The press of his mouth against Mickey's chest, so hard he could barely breathe. Humming as he sucked slow and steady. Humming as he slid his arm beneath Mickey’s back, a hot bow rising. 

He lifted his head, panting, admiring his work. His eyes found Mickey’s, then, and he saw Mickey’s eyes dart around his face, fall to his lips. He saw Mickey clench his teeth, saw his tongue poke out from the side of his mouth. His breath was hard. Mickey’s breath was hard. Ian saw a strange soft openness in Mickey’s face. There. There it was.

“More,” Mickey said. 

Ian’s mouth fell faster. Mickey cried out, a different type of sound. A sound Ian had never heard. Mickey’s hand flew up to grip Ian's head, hold him close, not letting him up as he opened his legs wider. Mickey’s hands shook against his hair, whispered _fuck._

Ian couldn’t believe Mickey hadn’t been pushed off a thousand times by now. Ian’s tongue slid over the marks until he met Mickey’s nipple. He lightly pressed his lips there, just shy of a kiss. Ian felt Mickey holding his breath. Ian's tongue swirled around his nipple once, twice, three times, mouth closing softly, a gentle pull as Mickey cried out, a _holy fuck_ pulled from his lips, spiraling up into the air. 

Ian’s head pulled back. He’d pushed his luck far enough. He knew it. When he looked at Mickey, Mickey’s eyes darted away from his face, found what was left of the ceiling. Embarrassed. Not knowing what to do next, now that he had let him do this. 

Mickey’s eyes found him again. The soft and open look was gone. The gruff annoyance, the pushy defensiveness, the eyerolling blame was back, a smear of black against a clean window. A darkness trying to cover the fear in his eyes. 

"That's enough," Mickey snapped. "Get off me."

Ian froze. Mickey pushed at him. "Get off me. Get the fuck on with it." Ian’s hand dropped as he sat back, pulling at Mickey’s belt, yanking it off, the sound of the buckle loud on the concrete. His fingers found the button, the zipper, not waiting to pull his pants off, roughly shoving a hand in, thumb sliding over Mickey’s leaking head. 

Mickey’s eyes were firm on his as his mouth dropped. Something flashed there again, something Ian couldn’t quite understand. He had to close his eyes to keep his face from falling forward, to keep his mouth away from Mickey’s. Fuck. Fuck. 

When he opened his eyes, he could see it. He could see Mickey wanted to. Could see Mickey focusing hard on his mouth. Hard on his mouth as Ian freed him. He could see Mickey wanted to as Ian’s hand dropped to his own pants, pulling them off, one ankle stuck, one more pull before he fell back on Mickey’s chest again. He could see Mickey wanted to. 

Mickey licked his lips and slowly found Ian’s eyes. Ian stared at him, breathing hard, trying to say _it’s okay_ trying to say _you can. We can. It’s okay._ His hand moved Mickey up and down, long, sure strokes. He forced his eyes to stay open. He looked straight into Mickey’s eyes.

Suddenly Mickey pushed Ian off him with both hands. “I said that's enough,” he said, voice pointed, defensive, rough as he began to turn over. 

Ian grabbed his hip to stop him. “Like this,” he whispered, voice shaking, hands pulling him closer. There it was again, the little flash, there and gone. "Mick, please." 

Mickey’s hand shot up to Ian’s chest. “No fuckin way,” he said. There was a fear, loud and soft, in his words. He pulled roughly away from Ian’s hands, foot finding Ian’s stomach as he turned over. “Go,” he said, looking over his right shoulder. “Aint got all night.”

Ian stared at his back. Blinked. Tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He slowly lowered his forehead, finding the spot between his shoulderblades, breathing in deeply. Mickey squirmed under him. “Quit it," he said. “Don't fucking kiss me.” 

Ian pulled back. “I’m not. I’m just putting my head down.” 

“Well, don’t,” Mickey snarled. "Just get on with it.” 

Ian huffed his confusion out, reached for his jeans, pulled the lube out, slicked up his fingers. He sat back, giving him all the space he could. He pressed one finger against him, gently, guiding the first one in, slowly. 

“Jesus, Gallagher.” His voice was cement, broken walls, closed doors. "Not your bitch."

The word slapped against him, tapped tears into his eyes. Ian sunk two fingers into him, hard.

“That’s better,” Mickey said. “There you go,” he said. He didn’t say anything else after that.

*

Linda’s trying to haul bags of rice around when Ian unlocks the door. 

“What are you doing?” Ian says, his eyes darting around Linda’s face, pulling the bag of rice from her arms. “Linda–” 

Linda sighs and pulls away. “I’m so tired of this,” Linda says. Her voice is harsh. “I need to be up. I can’t just lay there all day. The baby is almost big enough to be born. Early, you know, but–” 

“Linda,” Ian says, reaching an arm out. He knows what’s wrong. He looked it up after Kash left. “It’s preeclampsia. You could die.” 

Linda breathes out, shaky and slow. “Two boys and a store, me in a bed for months. What am I supposed to do?”

Ian nods. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. “Hey, I’ll help you upstairs. Mickey should be on his way. I’ll help you upstairs and get the cuff set up, okay? I can bring you up some food.” 

Linda nods slowly. She breathes out, a little o with her eyes closed.

“Hey, wait. You okay? Should I call the doctor?” She shakes her head. “You want me to call Debs and have her pick up the boys from mosque or something?” She nods her head. 

She keeps her head down as they climb the stairs. Ian can see why when they get into the apartment. Her eyes are wet. She pats Ian’s arm as he helps her into bed, slides the pillows under her legs. He gets her a glass of water and she turns on her left side like she’s supposed to. 

She clears her throat. Her voice is angry, but broken. “This really fucking sucks.” 

Ian nods. 

“It sucks.” 

Ian nods again.

“Come here,” she says. He does. She reaches her hand out, takes his, squeezes once, lets go. She lifts her eyes to the camera images. She really can see almost everything. He forgets, sometimes. 

As if on cue, Mickey comes in the front door. He looks around, walks around the aisles, the walk-in cooler. There, he disappears. A short time later, he reappears by the back door. 

Ian looks back at Linda, but Linda is still watching the screen. “He’s looking for you,” she says.

“Yeah,” Ian says, softly. 

Linda turns her head, meets Ian’s gaze. She gestures with her head. “You should get down,” she says. “Cheese sandwich. Hot mustard.” 

“You got it.” He pats her on the leg, makes his way to the door. “Be right back.” 

“Wait,” she says. She gestures with her chin at the cameras. “Ian, here is one thing, but out there…” 

Ian nods. Nods again. “I know,” he says, quietly. “We’re careful.” 

*

His tank top is wet, his face is wet, beads of sweat rolling down his back. 70. 71. 72. 73. His shins pull, toes sore. He lifts and lowers his body again and again. He reminds himself to breathe. 

When he thinks about Mickey right now, he doesn't feel woozy with lust. He doesn't want to stop and jack off, stop and run to find him somewhere. 

No. Right now he's furious. This morning he went into work, and Mickey wasn’t there. Linda said he needed to be out of town for a couple weeks. She said she almost wanted to fire him, but she couldn’t really lose him. Not when shoplifting was non-existent. Might as well keep a couple weeks of wages and hope for the best. 

Two weeks. Ian knows it’s to move drugs, guns, whatever around. Mickey never even told him, not even when they were together the day before. 

He knows Mickey will come back angry, come back tired and withdrawn and jumpy. He will yell at him, probably won’t want to have sex with him. Probably avoid him, drink too much, call him a fag.

He clenches his eyes shut, sweat burning the thought away. 82. 83. 84. 

Lip comes in, sits on the bed. Ian’s rage intensifies. How many pushups can Lip do? _Right now? Stoned?_ Fuck him. Fuck that folder from McNally on the bed. Fuck Lip. Fuck Karen and this whole fucking house. Fuck Mickey. Fuck it. 

Ian turns the shower on, and then Lip walks away, and then Ian opens his big mouth, and then they are fighting, and they are punching, knocking into walls, things falling, a shampoo bottle against Ian’s head. He grips Lip’s hair, holding him above the edge of the bathtub. Breathing hard. There’s a tiny scream inside him. Scared, saying _Stop! Stop!_ He does, he spits water from his mouth as he yells. This is it. This is all. Fuck Lip. Fuck this whole fucking house. Fuck Mickey and whatever he wants. 

* 

Ian is chewing the forbidden donut breakfast, opening the register to slide the tray in. He’s about to check how many fives he has when the doorbell chimes. 

There is a sharp intake of breath as he raises his head. It’s Mickey, standing there in his security jacket, with a beard. Wait. Not quite a beard, not quite yet. It’s in-between stubble and a beard. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey says in way of greeting. “Don’t say anything. Didn’t have a razor out of town. Dad thought it was best to let it go when we there, anyway. Harder to identify.” 

Ian nods. He can’t pull his eyes away. He’s never even touched a beard before. His facial hair grows in sparse and patchy. It would probably take him years to grow one. Mickey’s facial hair is lighter than the hair on his head, but darker than the hair on his arms. There is a sudden pounding in his chest, twitch in his lap. He wants to touch it. He needs to touch it.

“Does it itch?” It’s all that Ian can think to say. 

Mickey shrugs. “Not so bad.” 

“Ever grow a beard before? I don’t remember one.” 

Mickey shoots him a look, but doesn’t answer. He just grabs a magazine and slaps it on the counter, begins to page through it. “You like it?” He says it quietly, not looking up. 

Ian swallows, waits for Mickey to look up. He doesn’t. “Yeah,” Ian says. 

Mickey looks up. He nervously looks around the store, leans closer. “Go ahead. Just be quick.” 

Ian’s finger reaches out, drags one finger down his cheek. It’s coarse and a bit scratchy and Ian wants to feel it against him. His thighs, maybe. He swallows. 

Mickey pulls his face away, shrugs. "Might keep it. I don’t know.” He meets Ian’s eyes again. Ian gives a little nod. He doesn’t know what he should say. He doesn’t know what answer Mickey wants. 

Within an hour Ian knows what he wants. His hands fist around a shelf in the cooler, groaning into the cold, groaning against Mickey’s hot mouth. Groaning at the soft scrape inside his thighs as Mickey moves up and down. He pants hard. He wants it to last. His hand drops down, cups Mickey’s cheek as he moves. Ian moans. He looks down at Mickey’s face, catches Mickey looking at him. Mickey immediately drops his eyes, closes them. _Look at me. Please._

Ian’s fingers drift from Mickey’s cheek, slide against the back of his neck, slide up into his hair, palm smoothing to rest on the top of his head. Mickey hums deep in his throat, but his hand quickly raises to push it off. Ian finds the shelf again, grips tight. He feels Mickey slide deeper as he begins to let go. _Look at me, look at me._ He doesn’t. 

*

The van is hotter than anything, but it’s theirs, and the fights are over. They have catching up to do.  


“Saw Mickey,” Lip says, passing the joint over. “That beard your idea? Going for the literal instead of the figurative?” 

Ian laughs against the smoke. “Not my idea. Came back with it after a run. Guess it fills in kinda fast.” 

Lip chuckles, grins at Ian. “You like it?” 

Ian leans his head back on the headrest. “He asked me if I liked it. When he got back. I said I did and he hasn’t shaved it.” He closes his eyes. 

“Does it hurt?” 

Ian opens his eyes, turns toward Lip. “Meaning?” 

Lip laughs. “You know what I mean.” 

Ian turns in his seat. “No,” he feigns, “What do you mean exactly?” 

Lip passes the joint again. “Guess I over-estimated your skill set.” 

Ian shoves him. “Fuck off. Fine, whatever. No, it doesn’t hurt.” 

“There you go,” Lip laughs. “Knew I’d get it out of you when I implied poor technique.” 

“You’re one to talk.” Ian teases. They let the silence crawl over them. 

“Alright,” Lip says. “Let’s get out of here. Said you’d help me bring the truck out.” 

*

The cooler makes goosebumps on his arms, no matter how hot it is outside. He loves it. He loves the anticipation that builds as Mickey eases himself to his knees. He loves the moment he first slides into Mickey’s mouth, that immediate change in temperature, in sensation.  
  
"Don’t touch my head like you did last time,” Mickey warns, eyes up. “I’ll bite your fucking dick off.” 

For all his bluster, Mickey’s fingers are fast and impatient against his belt. breath hard against Ian’s boxers. When he pulls Ian out, he instantly takes him into his mouth, sucks the head, slides down, tongue so soft, mouth hot around him, a needy, overwhelmed sound in Mickey’s throat as he moves. Ian groans. 

Ian barely feels his hand rising, but catches it just in time. Mickey’s hand rises fast to bat it away. He pulls off. His hand grabs Ian rough enough to make him wince. “I’m serious, Gallagher,” he growls, lips slick. “Don’t touch my fucking head. Don’t touch my hair. Don’t touch my face. I’m not a fucking girl.” 

“Of course you’re not,” Ian says, fighting a smile. “If you were, I wouldn’t be here.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, pumps Ian twice, eyes firm in the head of his cock. His lips drop again, down and up, again, again. His tongue slips out to lick a thick line up the underside, breathing a wet groan against him as Ian’s legs shake. He captures the head again, slides up and down. God his mouth is soft. Mickey’s eyes glance up at Ian’s face once, quickly. Ian catches him, eyes hooded. Mickey’s eyes flick away fast as he gets into his rhythm. Up, firm and slow, sinking down, throat soft. He makes that needy sound again. 

Ian moans, deep and desperate. His head falls back, then forward. “Oh god,” he breathes. “Wanna touch you. Please.” 

Immediately, Mickey’s lets go of him. He scrambles to stand up. He glares at Ian, wiping his mouth. His eyes narrow. “Know what? How ‘bout you jerk yourself off,” he says. “I don’t have to be on this fucking filthy floor taking this shit, letting you do whatever you want to do.”

“Mickey,” Ian says, slowly. "This was your idea, coming in here.” 

“Well, maybe I changed my fucking mind.” 

Ian points to the hard line in Mickey’s pants. “Oh really?” 

Mickey’s eyes are hard on his. “Yes, really.” 

They stand there, looking at each other, Ian’s dick is still out. “Mickey,” he says. “You don’t have–”

Mickey chews his lip. "You need to stop stuff like this.” 

Ian’s stomach flips. “Stop things like what?” 

Mickey’s eyes don’t leave Ian’s cock. “Act like I’m a girl.” 

Ian sighs, runs his hand through his short hair. His hands go to his pants, shoving himself back in. “I don’t–” he begins. “Mickey, you’re not a girl. I don’t want you to be a girl. I don’t wanna fuck girls. I wanna fuck you.” He swallows. It’s probably as close as he could say that he wants him, that he likes him. Really likes him. That he...

Mickey’s eyes search his face. “Just–” he begins. “Just don’t think we should do this kind of stuff,” he says. “Like you trying to kiss me when you’re gonna fuck me.” 

Ian stares at him. “I’m not–I don’t–” 

“Dugout,” he says, crossing his arms. 

Ian shrugs, feels shy and wrong. “But you. But you sounded like you liked it. Sounded like you liked it up in the building, too.” 

Mickey looks down at the floor. He shrugs. “Don't matter if I did. Needs to stop. Quit it.” His eyes meet Ian’s. "And don't touch me when I'm doin' this."

Ian nods. He turns his head, eyes blinking something away. What is it? Oh, fuck. He blinks harder. He distracts himself by counting the half-gallons of milk on the shelf. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” Mickey says. “Where were we?” 

Ian looks back, looks back to where Mickey's on his knees again. “Mick,” he says, bending back, bending away from the eager fingers opening his pants again. “Let’s just open the store back up. I’m not–” 

But Mickey’s already back on his feet. He scoffs, raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? That how it is?" Ian nods. “Fuck you, then.” 

Mickey grabs a beer from the shelf, punches the metal door open, lets it creak on the hinge.

Ian hears the hum of refrigerator. He feels the cold in his lungs. He looks at Mickey over the tops of the juice bottles. Mickey is pacing, fingers worrying his lip, he looks around, puts his hands on the counter before pushing off again. He walks to the front door. Ian can’t hear him unlock it, but he can see it. 

Ian blinks his eyes again, cold in the corners. He steps out of the cooler, easing the door back. He closes the latch and returns to his seat at the counter. They don’t meet each others eyes. 

*  


He’s cruised hard every time he comes in here. He used to be so nervous he’d leave right away, but he doesn’t care anymore. The guys are usually about as old as Frank. The way he feels when they look at him is confusing.

It confuses him because it feels good. The way they look at him is not the way Mickey looks at him. They look at him like he’s special, like he holds some sort of power. They smile at him. They look him up and down. In public. Unashamed. They look at him like he’s good (is he good?) at sex, like he looks good, like he is good. They want him any way they can get him, just the way he is. The way he is just standing there at a magazine rack. 

They don’t look at him like he has to explain himself. They don’t hold him at a distance. They don’t act like he’s asking too much. They don’t look at him like they aren’t sure what they want. 

They aren’t Mickey. They never were, never will be. These men find their way to him in the store. They always do. Some guy breathing next to him, calling him Red. They never smell like Mickey, here. They smell like cologne and money and wolves. He cannot smell their skin, their sweat. He doesn’t want to. 

Another man brushes past him, fingers grazing Ian’s ass. Ian closes his eyes, grits his teeth. But when he turns around, the guy isn’t so bad looking. The guy motions toward the back of the store with his head. The booths, the peep window that moves up and down. Ian shakes his head. No. 

The magazine feels damp in his hands. He feels like he can’t breathe, the walls closing in. It doesn’t matter if he’s good. Good at this, good at that. They want him, he is wanted, he isn’t asking too much. He clears his throat. He isn’t going to pay for this shit. The guy at the counter eyeing him up and down. He’s not paying for this fucking magazine. He’s earned it just by standing here, letting them look, letting them in. He’s earned it. 

*

The watermelons are heavy coming off the truck, but it’s faster with two people. This might be the last of it. The sparklers and fireworks are gone already. Charcoal. Most of the lighter fluid. 

"Be right back," Ian says "Lip's coming later to pick up the last beer for the truck. Don't know if we have enough. Watch the front, okay?" 

Mickey flips him off in reply, eyes not leaving his magazine.

He walks into the cooler, starts looking around. He sees two unopened cases on the floor. Okay, that's two. Should be another one somewhere? He starts checking the shelf just before he hears the door close. 

"Hey," Mickey says. His tone is unreadable. He walks over slowly.

"Um, hey?"

Mickey chews at his lip. Shrugs. "Do you," he begins. "Do you maybe wanna do that thing?"

Ian knots his brow."Thing?"

Mickey looks down, looks up, looks sideways at the Gatorade before he meets Ian's eyes. "That thing you want me to do?"

Ian's palms sweat. _Kiss him? Oh, fuck._

"No, not–" Mickey begins, reading his mind. "Not that. I can't, you know-" He breathes out harshly. His voice is rougher, complaining. "Look, I'm not doing that." 

Ian fights his eyeroll. He tries to pull the annoyance out of his voice, but he can't. "Then do _what,_ Mickey." 

Mickey takes a step forward. He touches his beard, once, like he doesn't remember if its still there. He looks down, then up. His voice is still and soft. "Me on my back," he says. "On my back when you fuck me."

Ian's feels his lips open, a little gasp. "Are you." He swallows. "Are you serious?" 

Mickey nods. Shifts his feet. "What, don't want to?" 

Ian reaches out, takes Mickey by the belt. He pulls him forward, slowly. Mickey’s breath is hot against his neck as he begins to rock back a little. Ian's arm wraps around to steady him. He feels Mickey's body freeze up, then slowly relax, breath with a tiny hitch in it. 

Ian's mouth finds Mickey's ear. He lets his lip brush against Mickey's earlobe. "Did you lock up?"

Mickey nods. His hand rises fast to Ian's shoulder blade, startling himself. Ian can tell by the way he stills again, doesn't breathe. 

Ian begins to pull away, but Mickey keeps the distance close. Their eyes bounce over each other. Mickey bites his lip, releases, bites again. Ian is about to pull away again, but then Mickey's lips fall lightly against his neck. 

“Oh, fuck.” Ian tries to still himself, but he can barely breathe. Mickey does not bite, does not suck. His lips move soft and slow, carefully working Ian's head back, lower lip dragging up to kiss his jaw. 

"Oh fuck," Ian says again, and Mickey's arm pulls him in tighter. 

Ian cannot move. He wants to sink to the ground like this, taken under by the feel of Mickey's lips on his skin. Mickey's breath is shaky when he gently pulls away. Looks down. Looks up.

Ian’s hands find Mickey’s hips. They breathe hard. They move cautiously. They are almost shy. Almost embarrassed. But they are moving, they are touching, and then they bump into the stainless steel table. Cold. But their skin is hot and Ian is already guiding Mickey slowly onto his back. 

They like to keep their shirts on, here. It's cold, always cold, and Ian thinks Mickey feels safer with a shirt on. This is different. Mickey hisses, arches away from the table. He is pulling his tank up to his armpits, eyes soft on Ian, that open look, that question Ian wants to know how to answer.

Ian swallows. He stares at Mickey, licks his lips. Mickey gives a shaky nod, and Ian's lips fall softly to his chest, softer and softer, over and over, everywhere. Mickey's breath comes faster as Ian kisses and flicks his tongue against a nipple, then begins to journey further down. His fingers reach down, slide softly against Ian’s cheeks. 

"Hang on," Ian whispers, tearing himself away. He darts over to the cooler door and grabs a plastic milk crate. He moves so fast. He does not want Mickey to close himself back up, glaring, standing up and leaving. But he is still there, shirt up, hard in his jeans, breath heavy, eyes soft, wide and nervous, but Ian slowly reaches his hand out and slides a hand in his hair. When he pulls it back, Mickey's eyes flutter shut.

Ian slides his hands against Mickey's thighs, still trapped in denim, and gently pulls them apart. He lowers himself onto the crate to rest between his legs. His hands fall to Mickey's belt, his zipper, pulling his pants off, fingers racing to free him, lick and suck him, hum him down. 

Ian's mouth is hot. The scent of Mickey wraps around him, wrapping around him as Ian pulls off to breathe out _you can, Mick. Touch me._ The scent of Mickey's thighs around Ian's head, Mickey’s hand on his head, whining hard, whispering how close he is as Ian sinks deeper. 

The taste of Mickey grows stronger on Ian's tongue, making them moan, move deeper. Ian's hand comes up to slide against Mickey's chest. Ian feels Mickey's hand meet his, but instead of pushing Ian's hand away, Mickey softly slides his fingers to lace with them.

_Fuck._

Ian raises his head, meets Mickey's heavy hooded eyes. Mickey doesn’t look away. "You want me to make you come now? Or wait?" Mickey lightly squeezes Ian's with one hand, holds onto Ian’s shoulder with the other. 

"Make me come twice," he breathes. "Make me come hard."

Ian moans, mouth sinking back down and up and down and deep and up again, letting Mickey's fingers roam his face, the back of his neck. 

"Ready," Mickey whines. "Wanna-"

Ian pulls him closer in by the thighs, and Mickey gasps, gasps, gasps again as he releases into Ian's mouth. 

"Oh fuck," Mickey whispers as he opens his eyes. "Oh fuuuuuck. Come here."

Ian doesn't know where "here" is, but he wipes his mouth and leans up to meet Mickey again. His eyes are glassy and his mouth slack. 

Ian pats the pocket of his jeans. Oh thank God. He pulls out the stuff and slaps it on the table beside Mickey. 

"Take off your fucking pants," Mickey whispers, fingers fumbling as he tries to pull them open. "Wanna see your cock." 

Ian is quick to comply, and soon Mickey spits in his hand as he sits up, hand pulling Ian exactly how he likes it. “Yeah,” Ian says. “Fuck, just like that.” But Mickey already knows. Their eyes glue together. Mickey doesn’t look away. He keeps looking, jaw dropping, breathing hard.

"Let's go," Mickey whispers. "Get the stuff." 

Ian does. He gets the stuff. Suddenly, Mickey stills. 

Here it is. The inevitable shut-down. "What is it?" 

"Just–" he begins, but that's all he says. His eyes search Ian's face and then rake over his body.

"Go ahead," Ian says. He doesn't know what Mickey is thinking of, but knows he needs encouragement, to know it's okay, not weird. Not bad. Not wrong. “It’s okay,” he says. 

Mickey’s fingers raise, pause, return to his lap, relax. He takes a deep breath, raises his hands again. His palms slide shyly under Ian's shirt. At first, they just sit there, somewhere between pelvis and the thick bones of his hips. Mickey doesn't look up, He slowly smoothes his way up Ian's body, the best he can under his shirt. Ian's chest, his back. Mickey breathes harder as his hands blindly explore, swirling, tracing, each muscle trembling under the pads of his fingers. He looks up at Ian, nervous and amazed. It takes Ian's breath away. 

Mickey nods, gives a tiny shrug. Ian smiles, softly. 

"Come here," Mickey says, legs widening as Ian eases him back to the table again. "Just, come here."

He pauses. Ian slowly, slowly lowers his forehead, the same forehead Mickey has loudly hated twice, now. But now it dips and their foreheads touch, and now their lips are just shy of touching, and now their breath is being shared. and now there is the lightest brush of lips, then another brush of lips, almost firm, almost certain. But there is Mickey sharply turning his face away, short whisper saying "no." But he meets Ian's cheek, and Mickey slowly, slowly slides his hand up Ian's back, not stopping until he reaches his head.

It doesn't take long before they can begin. It's so slow. It's nothing harsh, not at all. They aren't wrong like this, not broken or missing. What they are doing isn't a matter of good enough. Like this, they are not hidden, they are revealed, bit by bit, a gift wrapped with layers of paper, a corner suddenly pointing through. 

Mickey has never breathed like this, made sounds like this, reached for him like this. Eyes rolling back, hips trying to press forward, head pushing back. He keeps trying to do something but Ian isn't sure what, but that soft, open look is on his face, and his jaw drops as he whispers "Ian."

Holy shit. His name feels so loud. Mickey's legs are high around his waist, and as Ian pulls himself away from Mickey's chest, he reaches for one leg. He slows his thrusts, slower still. He carefully slides out, a little "sorry" when Mickey winces.

"Let's try this," Ian says, pulling Mickey's leg up slowly. He’s never done this. He saw it in that magazine. Tore it out. "Tell me if it's too much."

This is where Mickey, the Mickey he shows everyone, would have told him to fuck off. Told him nothing was too much and he should shut his fucking mouth. That Mickey would stomp off, light a cigarette. That Mickey wouldn't be here, open like this, wide eyed and sweet like this. Fuck. 

But this is Mickey. Mickey, here. This is part of him, the secret part of him he's hidden so long. From Ian. From everyone. This Mickey, wide eyed as Ian slowly picks up his leg. Wide eyed as Ian places his leg onto his shoulder. He slides his hand up and down Mickey's leg. "Okay so far?" 

Mickey nods quietly. He tentatively reaches for Ian's forearms, loosely holding there. 

Ian nods, guides himself to meet Mickey again. He pushes in, stills as Mickey gasps out "oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck." His eyes open. He is tightly focused, teeth clenched before he shakes out a ragged sound. He grips Ian's forearms hard. So hard. Mickey's leg shakes, and Ian holds it steady. 

Ian can hardly speak. "You okay?" 

Mickey nods fast, groans "Deep."

It is. Oh God, it really is. And then it's a nod, and he's back and in and back and in and more and there and yes and fuck. They move slowly, deeply, so steady and hard. They shake so hard they cannot breathe. Mickey's hands still grip his forearms, his eyes are hooded and firm and his mouth is breathy, and Ian is buried so deep, and Ian can't hold onto his mind, can't look at Mickey too long or he won't be able to get Mickey there first. 

Ian tilts his head back, one dry swallow, one hitch of breath. His body is sparking, every inch of skin focused and alive, calling for Mickey. Everything is Mickey's. Oh God, he is Mickey's. They are there, sliding together, eyes and fingers saying all the words they can't. The words that say who they are. What they are. 

Oh God. Mickey asked him for this. Wanted this. Trusted him with this. Oh Fuck. Oh fuck. He's gotta get Mickey there, and fast. The table creaks back and forth as Ian speeds up, just a bit, just enough. Mickey shakes beneath him, lip between his teeth, eyes wide, small grunts in his throat. Oh God. Another dry swallow, Ian's lips to the ceiling, breath uneven, panting, shuddering. Fuck. Mickey's almost there. Almost. Almost.

"Hello, boys."

*  


For the first few minutes after Frank leaves, they don't speak. Ian stands by the front door, watching Mickey pace.

"Mickey," Ian says, breaking the silence.

"Shut the fuck up." 

"He won't–"

"I said to shut the fuck up!" Mickey yells. He steps close to Ian, closer, closer. He pushes him hard into the counter. Ian bounces off as he loses his footing. 

"Mickey, just calm down a sec." He reaches for Mickey's hand, but Mickey punches it away.

"Don't fucking touch me." Mickey's eyes back down just slightly from his glare. His eyes dart around Ian's face. "You can't touch me."

Ian nods slowly, swallowing. He hesitates before he speaks. "He doesn't care," he says. "He doesn't. It's fine."

Mickey huffs out a laugh. "Really? Thinks it's fine to see his son fuck some dude?" 

Ian nods slowly. "Mickey. He doesn't care. Doesn't care about anybody but himself." 

Mickey shakes his head, steps closer. "So you tell me Frank sees my dad at the Alibi and keeps this shit to _himself?_ You really think that? Gonna keep his mouth shut? Or is he gonna tell my dad all about you fucking me like like a girl, huh? Me just laying down and taking it?"

Ian closes the distance, eyes hard on Mickey's. "You need to shut the fuck up with that stuff. I swear to God." 

Mickey backs up. "Oh yeah?" He huffs again. "What, I hurt your feelings now?"

Ian clenches his teeth, tries hard to let it all brush past him, but it snags against him anyway. He tries so hard to calm him with his eyes. Calm him like he did in the cooler, just minutes ago. It feels like a dream, some fantasy Ian thought up in the shower. But it was real. It was. He still tastes Mickey in his mouth, feels Mickey's kiss on his neck, the accidental brush of his lips, soft proof.

"We gotta kill him," Mickey says. Someone knocks on the door. "Fuck off!” Look, nobody will miss Frank anyway. We shoot him in the head, we dump him in the river.” 

Mickey is talking so fast. He keeps talking so fast. There is nothing soft about this, about him. But here is Mickey. Here is another Mickey. All shaky knees and deep fear, glancing over his shoulder in the dark. Here is this Mickey. Scars on his back, a deep scar just beyond his hairline. Here is Mickey who has guns under his bed and panic in his throat. Panic when he feels good, panic as defenses fall away in Ian's hands. Defenses that crumble like the busted building, uneven rock and powder. Defenses falling, today - a wall with faded graffiti, a doorway. Mickey let go of it, and now it was rebuilt, quickly, corners cut. Ian knows he will never see him that soft again. It's gone. It's all gone. Ruined. Ruined because of Frank. Just like everything else.

Ian steps closer, tries to just get closer. Mickey yanks his coat off. “Stay here. This won’t take long."

*  


“Hey, Mickey Milkovich came by. Asking for Frank?” Mickey’s name coming from Fiona’s mouth feels strange and garbled in his ears. Simple, casual, almost lazy. Ian looks down at his geometry book, shrugging her off, pretending he doesn’t care, that geometry is the most important thing in the whole world. An excuse, a pause as she calls out for dinner.

“I’m gonna head out for a while,” he says. He’s out the door, out of the yard, into the alley. Where does he go from here? Mickey’s house first. Wait, no. Terry might be home. Wait, no. Terry was probably out of town. Was he? Ian tries to remember if Mickey said anything about it. Maybe he’s not home? Ian kicks a beer bottle down the alley. So he’ll go anyway. If Terry is there, who cares. Not like he knows anything. He’s seen him there. Knows he’s friends with Mandy. Terry can’t see into him, can’t see the truth. He would be irritated, that’s all. Yell at him. 

Okay. If Terry isn’t there, and Mandy isn’t there, where should he go? Alibi? He tries to think of some excuse to go there. Tell Kev that Vee wants to talk to him? He’d get busted on that one right away. Go in and say he was just in the neighborhood and needed to use the bathroom? That’s stupid. The only thing, the only real and obvious thing, is to say he’s looking for Frank. But he can’t say that. He can hear Kev causally saying “Hey, Ian was just in here looking for him too, Mickey.” 

Ian leans against a wall by the dry cleaners, sighs deeply. He could run around forever, trying to find Frank, trying to find Mickey. Trying to find one before the other. At this point, he doesn’t know who he needs to find first. He only knows his stomach turns to think of all of it. He only knows his hands want to punch the wall. He won’t, because then he’d have to explain that too. 

All the can do is run. Run here, run there, keep running in the dark, running under el tracks and across streets and when he stops running, his lungs feel like knives and sweat stings his eyes. He doesn’t even know where he is for a minute. He puts his hands on his knees, swallowing the dryness in his throat, licks his lips. He looks around, walks slowly to the street signs so he can see where he is. Fuck. It’s far. He turns around, starts to run. His legs scream. He slows to a walk. When he gets home, Fiona will have a bowl of something sitting out for him - spaghetti, maybe. She’ll probably snap at him for being so late. But she won’t mean it, and she’ll look at him, ask him if he’s okay. He’ll shrug and say Yeah, I’m fine. 

* 

Mickey finds him. 

Mickey finds him at the delivery door, smoking, sitting on the same milk crate they had in the cooler, Ian between his legs. The same crate, some inanimate witness who will never tell a soul. 

“Where is he,” Mickey demands.

“I have no idea.” 

“He’s had 24 hours to run his mouth. Where is he.” 

“He won’t.” 

“If my dad finds out about this, he will kill me himself.” The panic panic panic, palpable panic falling out of Mickey’s mouth, eyes, He retraces his steps in a list for Ian, each one cutting into the air, voice wavering, fear and anger dancing in his throat.

Mickeys hand grabs at his shoulder, spins him around hard. “Where the fuck is he?” 

“I don’t know!” Ian yells. And he doesn’t. He tried to find him, both of them, whoever. Everything he thought, about this, about Mickey, has had 24 hours to disintegrate. 24 hours since their hands roamed, mouths shy and close. 24 hours since Mickey looked at him–really looked at him– as Ian slipped between his thighs. 24 hours since Mickey said “Me on my back” and meant it. 

It’s all broken. It’s breaking into small bits in front of Ian’s face. It’s slipping away so fast and Ian can’t run after it. Mickey is slipping away so fast. It doesn’t have to be this. They can have another 24 hours, 48, 72. They can have one week, two, Three weeks, a month, a year. He’s stupid for believing that, believing this. Them. “Done. Done," Mickey says. He can’t mean it. He can’t. Please. Just erase it and start over. 

“We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.” His eyes try to say this, try so hard.

“What fucking world do you live in.” Mickey's eyes block his. They will not let him in. Not anymore. 

Ian stammers. Mickey is backing toward to door. Don’t. You don’t need to.

“What, you think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me.” 

Ian’s eyes immediately fill with tears. It’s how they get when he’s in the cooler, sometimes, when he’s concentrating hard and forgets to close them. This isn’t that, though. The tears sit there. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let them fall. Clenches his jaw to will them to stay. His body shifts. He wants to touch him, remind him. Prove to him he’s wrong. Prove he doesn’t mean it. 

But it’s not like that. The space between them is too wide, a step forward always means Mickey will step away, keep the distance. It doesn’t matter if Mickey closed it, just a little, just enough to make Ian’s arms ache. It’s back. Lines drawn. Closed.

Then Mickey is out the door, and then he’s gone, and then Ian’s eyes blink out and the tears fall and all he can do is watch the door, wait for Mickey to come back in, even just for a minute. But he doesn’t. The bell is quiet, the store is quiet, Ian is quiet, mostly. The only sound is him sniffing, clearing his throat, tears falling into his sleeve as he tries to rub them away. 

*

The next morning Ian emerges from the shower to hear Fiona yelling at Frank in the kitchen. Check came in. Yelling about food. Lip joins in, and that’s when Ian grabs the towel. 

Water slips off his face as he dries his body. There’s a lump in his throat and his stomach churns. He doesn’t know how to feel. If Frank is here, then where is Mickey? What will happen next? He doesn’t know. He pulls his clothes on quickly, body still damp, fighting capture, trying to slow him down.

When he comes downstairs, Frank stops talking. He laughs, reaches out an arm to push Ian’s shoulder. “And this one,” he says, still swaying from the night before. “This one is the man with all the secrets.” 

Ian clenches his jaw. “Frank,” he says. “Frank, just go.” 

Frank gestures to everyone in the kitchen. “I need food for my mother! You can’t even make your dying grandmother a bologna sandwich?” 

“Fuck off, Frank,” Lip snaps. Pop tarts emerge from the toaster. He passes one to Ian. “Gotta get going,” he says. “Fi, you got Liam?” 

Fiona nods, eyes not leaving Frank’s face. “Get the fuck out,” she growls. “I already have the check. No reason for you to be here.” 

Frank slowly turns to Ian as Fiona runs upstairs. “And you,” he says. 

Ian shakes his head. “You can’t, Frank.” Shit, he doesn’t want to beg. “Frank, you have to keep your mouth shut about this. Terry’s gonna kill Mickey if he finds out.” 

Frank scoffs. He reaches for the bag of bread, and Ian lets him. He watches him shove the bread into his mouth. 

“I–” Ian begins. “I don’t want him to get hurt, Frank. Please.” 

Frank looks at him hard. He shuffles his way over, places both hands on his Ian’s shoulders. Ian tries to ignore the fistfulls of bread on his shirt, the sick feeling in his stomach. Tries to ignore his teeth clenching to stop the burn in his eyes. 

“Son,” he says. “Son.” Frank shakes his head sadly. He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t move. They look at each other. Frank’s face is still. He nods. Ian looks back at him. He will not give him tears. 

Finally, Ian steps away. He reaches for the bread, opens the refrigerator, pulls out the bologna. Starts to make a sandwich. 

*

Mandy opens the door, a wide smile and a plan. “Good,” she says. “Was hoping you’d come around. Just found out Jamie’s friend’s sister is working at that movie theater in Lincoln Park. Let’s go.” She starts herding Ian through the doorway, but he stops her.

He looks over her shoulder, squinting to see Mickey’s room, see if the door’s shut.  


“What,” she says. “What’s the matter?” She turns her head to follow his gaze, and Ian blinks fast and hard. She turns back and Ian hopes she can’t see it in his eyes. “Seriously, what? You’re being weird.” 

He breathes in deeply. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just Frank.” He shifts foot to foot, tries to wait the right amount of time to say it. “Think Mickey'd want to come?” He says it with a little shrug, keeping the waver out of his voice the best he can. 

Mandy takes a deep breath, leans against the doorframe. Rolls her eyes, “Get this,” she says. “Mickey got picked up last night. Iggy said he went up and took a swing at a cop. Fucking idiot. I swear, can my brothers stay out of juvie for ten fucking minutes?” She nudges Ian out the door completely.

They sit on the steps. Ian fights the urge to run. He tries to press his toes into the cement. He imagines the day the cement was put down, whenever that was. Some guy –maybe even Terry–leaning over each step, one of those metal spatula things spreading the wet cement back and forth. Making it smooth. Unmarked. Blank slate.

Ian imagines himself walking up to those steps, that first day, whenever it was. Imagines sticking his feet in, leaving marks, changing things. Changing things like the cold day he walked up them, tire iron wobbling in his hand.

And now here he is, both feet pressing in hard. He wants the cement to melt away, then harden around him and not let him get up. He wants to sit there and sit there until Mickey knows he was here, can see the imprints he left and know it was him. 

He can’t breathe. He needs to go. They need to go. He says they should stop by his house on the way, that he forgot something. When they get there he says hang on, stay here, and Mandy says why, says why are you acting weird, but Ian says just wait here a sec and she does. 

And he runs upstairs, and he opens his bedroom door, and he pulls his thin blue hoodie and his shirt from the floor. That shirt with that eight ball on it. Ian hears a pool ball bang in his brain. Eight ball banging against the sides of the pool table at The Alibi. Like where Terry stands, sometimes, laughing, cigarette shoved in the corner of his mouth. That eight ball sinking into a tangled pocket hidden deep inside of Ian. He can’t remember if it means he wins or loses. 

Ian lifts the shirt to his face. He’s worn it with Mickey before. That time on the roof, Mickey letting his lips fall on him, stay on him, bruise him slowly. He’s washed it, but part of him sees the shirt like that, a hand-me-down, but his. Secrets in the fabric. Theirs. 

His nose finds the shoulder Mickey grabbed as he turned him around in the store. It's the last time they touched. The last time, and Ian can hardly feel it, hardly remember. Mickey’s hands, rough and soft, He didn’t leave a mark. Ian already checked. 

He breathes into them. The shirt. The hoodie. Both at once. He breathes in, trying to find a trace of Mickey. Evidence, promises, proof, anything. He only smells himself. A faint whiff of cheap detergent. Nothing. He closes his eyes. They leak and burn against the fabric. He swallows hard. Breathes deeper.


End file.
